


Through This Long Winter's Night

by whisper_norbury



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Beer, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Christmas, Danger, Drinking, Driving, Erebor, Established Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Fell Winter, Fires, Hanukkah, M/M, Mentions of Death, Snow, The Misty Mountains, Uncle Thorin, Winter, bagginshield christmas, marriage proposals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:48:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21861586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisper_norbury/pseuds/whisper_norbury
Summary: Three years after becoming a couple, Thorin and Bilbo spend a long winter night separated by the most devastating blizzard to hit Middle Earth in decades; but though Bilbo's night is spent in loneliness and worry, Thorin's is spent in danger and fear.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 13
Kudos: 38





	1. The Lonely

**Author's Note:**

> This is a modern AU, though I leave it to the reader whether it is also a human AU. Honestly, I wrote it so either can be assumed!
> 
> Also, although this is ostensibly a Christmas story, it is really more of a winter story in general... which works out rather well, since there is really no way I will have this entire thing done before Christmas!
> 
> As always, please forgive any small grammatical or spelling errors, as I will fix them once I have a chance to go over this again with fresh eyes!

The Ivy Bush Inn on Bywater Road was warm and cozy, though empty of customers—save Bilbo Baggins, who was staring down into his mug as if he could use it to see across the miles. He looked deeper and deeper, finding himself entranced by the bubbles that were bursting at the surface; but all at once a pulsing signal from his right made him jump, and he spilled a bit of his beer onto the bar as he spun around to face the large TV on the wall.

It usually had some sport or another playing on it, but today it was set to the Weather Channel; and he tightened his grip on his mug when he saw that the reporter on the screen was leaning against the wind, her bright orange parka barely visible past the driving snow. What she was saying was all but inaudible, so Bilbo focused on the subtitles above the ominous red ticker that continued to warn viewers of the storm that was bombarding the Misty Mountains and Erebor.

_"...has declared a state of emergency,"_ the woman said, _"and authorities are warning people to stay off the roads if at all possible. Now back to the studio."_

The blinding white was at once replaced by warmer tones as the in-studio meteorologist, who was dressed in a simple suit and tie, appeared on screen. "Thank you, Beth," he said. "Now get yourself inside and have a cup of hot cocoa!" He turned to his co-host—a lady in a well-tailored short-sleeved dress—and offered her a faux smile. "This is definitely going to have an impact on Holiday traffic."

The lady nodded stiffly. "Already there have been at least eight accidents in the Misty Mountains," she said as she turned to the camera, her demeanor much more businesslike than the man's had been. "Three fatalities have also been reported, although that number may go up as communications are restored."

"So please," the man said as the camera cut back to him, "no matter how much you're craving your grandma's fruitcake, stay off the roads. It's better to get there safe and a little late than not at all. We'll be right back."

The report changed to a commercial for laundry detergent—though the red warning continued to scroll—and Bilbo turned his face down, fiddling a bit with the garland strung along the bottom of the counter. A sigh escaped his lips, and he at long last took a drink of his beer; then from the edge of his vision he saw movement, and he lifted his eyes to watch as his Aunt Rosa, the Inn's primary barkeep and cook, stepped up across from him.

"He still hasn't called?" she asked, brushing her long silver hair away from her forehead.

Bilbo tapped a fingertip on his phone where it was sitting beside his mug. "Not yet."

"Have you tried calling _him_?"

"A couple times. Couldn't get through. Bofur and Balin aren't answering, either, and Fíli and Kíli's phones are just going straight to voicemail."

She drew a towel out from under the bar and wiped up the beer Bilbo had earlier spilled. "What about Facebook? Or _whatever_?"

"Nobody's posted anything in hours."

Rosa threw the bar-rag over her shoulder and squinted at him, deepening the crow's feet beside her eyes. "Well, if you haven't heard from _any_ of them, then the lines are probably just down."

"Probably," said Bilbo with another sigh. " _Hopefully_."

"Well, worrying never helped anything," she said gently, placing a hand on his arm. "And anyway, Thorin is about the toughest and most resourceful guy I know. He'll be _fine_."

Bilbo gave her a tight-lipped smile and a small nod; then he shifted his sight to the mirror behind the bar, which was reflecting the winter scene through the large window at the front of the room. Here in Hobbiton, at least, the snow was relatively light; though it was colder than any December the town had seen since the three-month-long Fell Winter—an event which was by now a distant, bitter memory to the older residents, and almost an urban legend to the younger generation. Bilbo himself remembered it well, though he had long tried to forget: he remembered thinking that spring would never come; he remembered how the lives of several people in the Shire had been lost to accidents or the inability to endure the cold; he remembered his own father dying when he had taken ill in the deepest days of the freeze.

A shiver ran up Bilbo's spine. No... no, he really shouldn't be dwelling on that, he told himself. That was long ago, and Rosa was right about not worrying. Thorin had grown up in the mountains, after all, and had spent years dealing with harsh weather. How could he be anything _but_ safe? How could he _not_ know what to do? Really, it was a _good_ thing that Thorin had stayed at the Lonely Mountain to help his employees to brace against the storm.

_Employees..._

No, they weren't simply that. There were only twelve people that worked for Thorin, and they were family. _Literally_ family: Thorin's nephews, cousins both distant and close, and friends who had been by his side for so long that he would never dream of calling them anything _except_ family. All were fiercely loyal—to Thorin, _and_ to each other—and even in the leanest of times none of them had moved on. Nor had Thorin himself ever given up on any of them, despite their occasionally-voiced fear that they had nothing to offer in exchange for such fidelity.

Bilbo loved that about Thorin. He loved his devotion, his determination to make certain that the people he cared about were taken care of, that they were _safe_. Of course, that didn't make Bilbo any happier about him being in harm's way. 

There came another brief pulse of warning, and Bilbo focused again on the Weather Channel. The wind-chill map on the screen was a wash of light blues over the Shire, shifting to white and various shades of purple across the Lone Lands, until at last becoming a frightfully deep shade of magenta over the Misty Mountains—an indicator that the wind-chill was at least fifty degrees below freezing. Thankfully, beyond the foothills and into Rhovanion it was not as cold, changing again to purple as it went past Mirkwood; though at the heights of Erebor there was a none-too comforting deep pink blotch, along with a large _-20_ showing over the peak.

Bilbo glanced at the small Christmas tree set up at the end of the bar. _He'll be fine,_ he tried to convince himself as he drained his beer. _They'll all be fine..._

"Want another?" asked Rosa, taking his mug.

Bilbo shrugged. "How many have I had already?"

"Including _this_ one?" Rosa cast her sight towards the ceiling and pretended to count on her fingers. " _One._ "

Bilbo glanced at the clock on the wall and let out a humorless laugh when he saw that it wasn't yet past two in the afternoon. "And it only took me half an hour."

"Oh, you're right! Better cut you off before you wreck the place!"

"Never," joked Bilbo halfheartedly, slapping his palm down on the bar. "Keep 'em coming! I may as well close down the town!"

Rosa drew another draught and set it down in front of him. "How about something to eat?" she asked. "The usual?"

"Is the kitchen even open? I thought you couldn't cook unless there was someone else here to tend to the place."

"For you, I'll make an exception." She leaned forward and winked at him, then stepped out from behind the bar. "Besides, it's not like the place is hopping right now. Keep an eye on things out here for me."

Bilbo gave her a thumbs-up as she went through the swinging doors that led into the kitchen. The near-ambient sound of the meteorologists speaking then gave way to what he assumed was supposed to be soothing music, and he turned back towards the TV. On the screen there was a listing of local closings and delays. No schools were listed, as they were already shut down for winter break; but all of the municipal buildings in the area were closed, and many government facilities were operating on essential personnel only. In addition, highway tolls had been suspended for the duration of the storm—however long that might be.

Picking up his beer, he walked with it to the window, shivering again as he peered past the foggy glass at the people trudging their way up and down the street. There was snow on the ground, but the plows had already come by; and as well, the locals had taken it upon themselves to use the snow blower to clear the sidewalks. _The_ snow blower being the one that belonged to Hamfast Gamgee, who had basically told the entire town that they could make use of it, so long as they refilled it with fuel when they were done.

As far as settlements in the Shire went, Hobbiton wasn't really a small town, although it _was_ a close-knit one. People here tended to watch out for one another, which had really cemented Bilbo's decision to come back after he had finished up with his wanderings—that period of time some six years before when wanderlust had taken over and he had decided he wanted something more from life. He had gone off in search of adventure, visiting many places and meeting many people along the way, and eventually resolving to compile all of the disparate stories and recipes that he had come across into a travelogue and cookbook.

It had been during those travels that he had met Thorin; and really, it had been something of a twisted road getting there. He'd gone to a small bakery in the Wilderlands that had been for years famed for its honey cake; and there he had heard of a certain outlet in Mirkwood, of all places, that did some amazing things with local organic ingredients. There, he had overheard some customers speaking of a shop in Dale that had an unusually tasty variety of _cram—_ which was traditionally not known to be something that someone went out of their way to buy, unless they were planning either a long camping trip, or else had a nostalgic craving for the stuff from needing to eat it in their older days of want.

That shop was where Bilbo had first seen Thorin—who, it turned out, was one of those who _had_ subsisted on cram in his poorer days, which were not actually quite so far behind him. Thorin was not bad-off by the time Bilbo had found himself standing in line behind him at that small Dale shop, but his frugal and resourceful ways had persisted. The two of them had gotten to talking about regional foods, and somehow the conversation eventually shifted to how Thorin and his kin had been in a long-standing battle to reclaim the family's jewelry business. Granted, it was not a very large company—but before some rich and rapacious businessman had come along and enacted an obscure contract clause that Thorin's grandfather had gone into many years ago, it had been _theirs._

Touched by Thorin's plight, Bilbo had done all he could to help him gain back his family business; and since Bilbo had made many friends in his travels, he was able to find someone who could go over the contract with a fine-toothed comb and an eye for loopholes. In the end, after a protracted legal battle, the Durin family business in Erebor was reclaimed; and by that time, Thorin and Bilbo had become very close, indeed.

Still, Bilbo had his own life in Hobbiton. He missed the slower pace, his friends and family, his house on the Hill. He settled down to write his books, detailing his travels and the food he had come across along the way; but he and Thorin never lost contact. They wrote to one another constantly, and at long last Bilbo's descriptions of his hometown had enticed Thorin to come and visit. He had then never left, and that had suited Bilbo just fine.

Although it had taken the locals a while to get used to Thorin, he was now a part of the community—even to the point where Bilbo's estranged cousins, Lobelia and Otho, were somewhat friendly to him. At any rate, it was clear to all in the area how in love Bilbo and Thorin were, so that they were seldom anymore invited to events and parties individually, but always as a pair. It made Bilbo's chest warm with pleasure to hear Thorin referred to as his _other half_ , but still he longed to be able to call him something more meaningful, something _undeniable_. So as their third holiday season as a couple approached, Bilbo had decided that on Christmas morning he would ask Thorin to marry him. Unfortunately, that didn't seem to be how it was going to turn out.

Since Hanukkah began on the tenth and ended on the eighteenth of December this year, Thorin had thought it would be nice to visit his family in Erebor for the holiday; though Bilbo's fear of flying meant that he would not be joining him. Thorin had told him that he understood, and had promised that he would call Bilbo every day, and that he would be home in Hobbiton before Christmas. But while he had been in the East, the storm had quickly developed, then it grew into what the newscasters were calling a _polar vortex_. Thorin had, with Bilbo's blessing, then opted to stay an extra day or so to be sure that his family would be safe and warm. That, it turned out, led to him being stuck there even longer, as the snow and wind soon shut down most of the airports that serviced both the Misty Mountains and Erebor.

The day before yesterday, Thorin had called to tell him that everything was fine, giving gentle assurances that he would be home as soon as possible. That was the last that Bilbo had heard from him. Since then, the storm had turned suddenly to the south, covering more of the Misty Mountains than originally projected, and the temperatures in that area had dropped by twenty degrees in just over an hour. Overnight, they had fallen even further, until some parts of the mountains were thirty degrees below freezing even when the wind was calm.

A squeak from the kitchen doors brought Bilbo's attention around, and he looked over as Rosa came out with a basket of newspaper-wrapped fish and chips in her hand. He walked back to the bar and pulled himself up onto his stool, setting his mug down as she placed the hot food in front of him.

" _Lush_ ," she said playfully, motioning towards his untouched beer. "I'll have to ask you to leave if you keep drinking so much."

"Goodness knows you could use the break," Bilbo said, taking a bite of a chip. "The place is just overflowing with customers today."

"Isn't it, though?" Rosa grabbed the remote and muted the television, then took a glass down from the drying rack and drew another draught before pulling her own stool over and sitting across from Bilbo. "Here's to the lonely," she said, raising her drink in salute.

Bilbo lifted his mug in response. "Let's hope they don't stay that way for long," he returned; then he took a small sip as she gulped down her own beer with gusto.

Barkeeps drinking on the job was by no means illegal in the Shire, if they kept it to a reasonable amount. Still, it struck Bilbo odd on the rare occasions when he saw Rosa actually doing so. Of course, she claimed to have been able to drink many a young fellow under the table back in the day; and more than once she had told the story about that being how she had met his uncle, Hildigrim—though it was more accurate to say that was how she had met and _married_ him, since when the two of them had sobered up after that particular _competition_ they were both wearing cheap wedding bands and he had a hastily scrawled marriage certificate in his pocket.

Despite that odd beginning, they had stuck it out, falling deeper and deeper in love with one another as each season passed. They had remained married for many years after, but Hildigrim had died the very year that Bilbo had met Thorin; and in fact, Bilbo had been on the road when it happened. Fortunately, she'd had other family and friends in the area to comfort her, but he had never gotten over not being there for her, himself.

Rosa seemed like she wanted to say something, and Bilbo readied himself to receive the coming flow of reassurances; but they were both surprised by the sudden buzzing of Bilbo's phone on the bar. His heart racing, he set the beer down and checked the incoming number before answering the call.

"Bofur!" he said. "Oh, thank goodness! I was worried!"

_"No need to be!"_ replied Bofur. _"We're all fine up here. Just saw I had some missed calls. Sorry it took me so long to get back to you, but the phone lines have been up and down for hours. Probably going to go down again soon, too. So, how are you doing over there in the heat?"_

Bilbo gave Rosa a great relieved smile, and she grinned in understanding, mouthing the words _told you so._

"We're good," said Bilbo, letting out a long breath. He looked again to the television, and though he could not hear what was being said, the images were disheartening. "I'm just… well, you know me. I worry."

_"You Shire folks really aren't used to the colder weather, are you?"_

"Not at all," chuckled Bilbo. "Not at all!"

_"In that case, we'll try to keep the snow up our way! Or at least the worst of it. And again, we're all fine. All hunkered down together and riding it out at Balin's place. He's got enough firewood and canned food to keep us warm and fed for months."_

"Let's hope the storm doesn't last _that_ long. My nerves couldn't take it."

Bofur let out his familiar, chipper laugh. _"Well, I'm going to let you go, then. Don't want you to think I hung up on you if the storm knocks out the lines again."_

"Good idea! Give everyone my love, and... well, if you could, let Thorin know that I... well, that I miss him, and I can't wait until he gets home."

There was silence on the other end of the line, and Bilbo thought for a moment that the phones had indeed gone down again; but then Bofur spoke up, his voice this time more muted. _"Do you mean... do you mean that he and the lads haven't gotten there yet?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter's title (and the general idea of the whole story, really) comes from the Elmo and Patsy song, "Here's To The Lonely".


	2. Any Port In A Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small note that I did not make on the previous chapter: I see modern Thorin as being of mixed heritage, and so he celebrates both Christmas and Hanukkah; while his nephews and much of the rest of his family only observe Hanukkah.

Thorin stared at the rushing world of white outside the small hotel room's window, while behind him his nephews talked and laughed where they sat together on the bed. They did not seem to understand the situation, making light of it as they were. Still, he was glad they had asked to come back with him to the Shire after Hanukkah. He knew Bilbo would be thrilled to have them visit for Christmas, though the boys themselves did not celebrate the holiday.

Of course, driving there hadn't been the original plan. At first, they were going to take a plane back west; but with the news of the snow closing down many area airports, they had instead left out from Erebor in Fíli's old Dodge Ram the day before yesterday. They had then made for the Redhorn Pass—as the more northerly High Pass was supposed to be bearing the brunt of the storm, while the Southern Misty Mountains had been forecast to remain clear. It meant a three-hundred or so mile increase in total driving distance, but Fíli and Kíli and Thorin were going to take turns behind the wheel, so they figured that they could make it to Hobbiton in twenty hours, or twenty-two at the most.

The truck had seen better days, but it was well-winterized, with plenty of room for the three of them, a strong heater, and a full set of brand-new winter tires—and they had also been sure to bring along snow-chains and a power inverter, just in case. And since Fíli was most used to his truck's quirks, he drove first. He got them down the Lonely Mountain and as far as the edge of Long Lake, where Thorin took over to get them through Mirkwood. Kíli had then done his part from the edge of the woods to the foothills of the Misty Mountains.

It was at that point that they decided it was best to put on the snow-chains, since even though the worst of the storm was supposed to be staying to the north, they would still be travelling up into the heights. They headed out then, with Fíli driving slowly and carefully up the Pass in what was—at the time—not an altogether terrible snowfall. However, none of them accounted for the mercurial nature of weather on the border of Eriador and Rhovanion; and they certainly hadn't expected the temperature to drop twenty points before they were even an hour into their trip over the mountains.

The storm hit with a force and speed that Thorin had never seen. The snow itself did not grow much heavier right away, but in a matter of minutes, the winds grew strong enough to nearly push the truck through the guard-rails on the narrow road, even with the chains installed. The radio on the truck went to static, and when the group tried their phones they were greeted by a dead silence. Somehow, Fíli managed to keep them on the road through the murderous gusts, despite the mountain itself seemingly wanting to push them from the edge, until he managed at last to get them to a place that resembled civilization—a small mountain-town by the name of Redhorn City, which was the epitome of the term _any port in a storm_.

It was, in fact, the smallest town that Thorin had ever been to; smaller, even, than the tiny crossroads-village of Waymeet in the Shire. The ravine that it was located in was no more than a mile wide and perhaps three miles long, which had the unfortunate effect of actually intensifying the winds as they blew through the chasm. Perhaps because of that, none of the residential structures were individual houses, but were instead old brick apartment buildings, none more than two stories high; and all of the buildings were situated along the one road through the area, well away from the cliff walls. Still, despite the town's size there were several amenities: a market about the size of a corner convenience store, with a single gas pump outside; a medical building that had one side designated for people, while the other was set up as a veterinary clinic; a diner that also appeared to be the local bar; and a rather plain, squarish structure with nothing on it to indicate what was inside, save for the words "Municipal Building" above the door.

The most welcoming sight for the travelers, however, was the small hotel that was located at the dead-center of town. The elderly owner of the place, Lóni, had told them that there were usually four rooms for rent there, all located on the second floor; but when Thorin and the boys arrived, three of them were in various states of repair and refurbishment. He had then gone on to explain that although he got fair enough business in the summer months, very few people ever stopped by in the winter, so he found that the best time to get any work done around the place.

He offered them the one available room at no cost, feeling that it would be unfair of him to take advantage of the fact that the group had nowhere else to go in the storm; but not only did Thorin insist upon paying, he even promised to mention the place to others, in the hopes that it might bring more business the old widower's way. For that, Lóni was more than grateful, and after apologizing that there was no staff on-hand to provide room service, he had given them permission to help themselves to whatever they wanted in the kitchen—they were, after all, unlikely to eat him into bankruptcy. Thanking him again, Thorin and his nephews had then gone upstairs to the dry and warm safety of their double room.

The telephones and internet in the hotel—and, indeed, throughout the entire town, Lóni had told them—were inoperable, and there was still no signal to be found on their own mobile phones; so there was little they could do now except wait out the weather. They had spent most of the afternoon and early evening in the rec-room, where there was set up a fairly scraggly artificial Christmas tree that was decorated with fragile old glass baubles and tinsel that had, perhaps, been tangled up in its branches for years in storage. Rec-room or not, there was little entertainment to be found besides board games and old VHS tapes, as the cable was also not working.

When the group at last decided to turn in, Thorin returned to the room with a book from the case beside the tree, in the hopes that it would help him to relax. It didn't; and after a fitful night of listening to both the wind howling outside and his nephews fighting over the covers in the next bed, Thorin had managed only a couple hours of sleep in the early morning. He halfway believed that when he awoke the snow would have stopped, or that the wind might have slowed; but even now in the early afternoon of their second day in Redhorn City, the weather showed no signs of calming.

"Of course you didn't see it!" said Kíli loudly. "You were sleeping!"

Thorin shifted about to see his younger nephew sitting cross-legged on the bed with his hands held up in the air, fingers bent like claws towards his brother.

"It was huge!" Kíli went on. "Massive!"

Fíli laughed. "Really?"

"I swear I saw it! _You_ saw it, right, Uncle Thorin?"

"Saw... _what_?" asked Thorin, squinting.

"That big black bear on the west of the Great River!" said Kíli excitedly.

"I'm afraid not."

Kíli's face fell. "Oh, come on! It was right off the side of the road, standing on its hind legs and all! It was _giant_! How could you have missed it?"

"I guess I was distracted," replied Thorin, shrugging. "Perhaps you should have mentioned it at the time, and I might have noticed it."

Fíli threw his hands up. "There aren't any bears in that area, Kíli," he said. "Let alone _giant_ ones."

"Whatever," said his brother, crossing his arms. "I _know_ what I saw."

The two of them went on arguing, and Thorin shook his head in amusement. They had all just spent another few hours in the rec-room, occupying themselves as much as they were able; and Thorin was both happy and mildly surprised that the boys didn't complain once about being bored. Perhaps it was the novelty of the place. It felt, really, as if they had traveled several decades back in time, and that was actually something fascinating for them. For Thorin, himself, it felt comfortable, familiar. A step into his younger days, when his time _was_ often spent playing games and reading books and occasionally watching campy movies on scratchy VHS tapes.

 _The simplicity_. He liked that about Hobbiton, about living there with Bilbo.

How worried must he be by now? Thorin hadn't spoken to him since the group left Erebor. He didn't want to ruin the surprise when he arrived; when _they_ arrived. That was something, anyway. Bilbo didn't know that Fíli and Kíli were coming back with him, so there was that much _less_ for him to be concerned about. Sure, he would be worried about Thorin… he _always_ worried about Thorin. But if he knew that the boys were stuck there, as well…

 _The boys_.

No, they weren't really _boys_ anymore, were they? They weren't the little children that Thorin helped his sister raise after her husband died. They were adults, even if at times they seemed too young to be called that. They'd been away from the Blue Mountains for a couple years already; they'd been away from their mother and Thorin for all that time. And they had grown, come into their own.

When Thorin arrived at Erebor, they had excitedly told him of all the fun they'd had hiking around the Lonely Mountain, camping on its slopes, hunting in the foothills, fishing in the dells. Those were all things that Thorin himself enjoyed doing when he was younger than either of them were now; and doing those things always made him feel grown up and independent back in those days. But now that it was Fíli and Kíli doing it, he felt they weren't _quite_ old enough for such adventures.

Outside the wind still howled and the snow still flew. He watched on as a run-down SUV with a rusty plow blade attached to the front went up the street for the second time that hour. If nothing else, at least the locals were adamant about keeping the roads clear; though Thorin wondered how long the old vehicle would be able to keep running if the temperature continued to drop. On the building across the street, he could see the straggling remnants of garland and strings of lights whipping around in the blizzard winds. Redhorn City must have looked quite festive, he thought, before the storm had come. Much like Hobbiton must be by now: well-decorated, with long strings of colorful bulbs glowing brightly against the white of the snow.

Thorin let out a long breath. Was Bilbo finished with the holiday preparations already? Was the decorating done? Were the presents wrapped? Were the cookies all baked? Or was he waiting for Thorin to come back to do all of that? Waiting and waiting, while Thorin and his nephews were holed up in this little town, expecting any moment to be buried in snow or tossed about by the winds.

Although he had no conscious realization when they had stopped, Thorin became suddenly aware that Fíli and Kíli were no longer speaking. He blinked hard, bringing himself back to the moment, and he looked over to see that they were staring at him.

"Are you all right, Uncle Thorin?" asked Kíli.

"I'm fine," replied Thorin; repeating it again as he turned back to the window, "I'm fine."

He folded his arms across his chest and watched as a strong gust of wind outside kicked up an eddy of snow in the middle of the street below; then from the edges of his vision, he saw his nephews step up on either side of him.

"You don't _seem_ fine," said Fíli. "Come on, Uncle. You said we could talk to you about _anything_. That goes both ways, you know."

Thorin stiffened, then his shoulders drooped and he sighed deeply. "I told Bilbo I would be home by Christmas Eve," he admitted at last, turning his back to the window and walking to his bed. "I promised him."

Confusion crossed Kíli's face. "I'm sure he understands," he said. "I mean, it's not like you have any control over the weather."

"You're right," said Thorin. He sat down on the bed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I _don't_."

What he _did_ know he had control over, though, was the fact that they were there at all. Not for the first time, he wondered if it would have been better if they had gone further south, skirting around Fangorn Forest and avoiding the Mountains entirely. It would have been a lot longer drive; but in taking it, they might have avoided the worst of the storm, and they would likely have been home already.

And more than that, they _could_ have left even sooner and flown back before the airports closed. He hadn't _really_ needed to stay at Erebor to make sure things were going well. Balin and Dwalin and the others were taking care of everything, as always; never failing to make sure things ran smoothly, even in the face of the unexpected. And even so, he could have simply called them on occasion to make sure there were no problems.

So why _had_ Thorin stayed at Erebor?

Why?

_Control._

Thorin frowned. Always, _always_ he needed to be in control; ever since his family's business and home had been taken from them so many years ago, ever since his grandfather and father died still hoping that what was theirs would be reclaimed. But still, even after it _had_ been reclaimed, he couldn't let go of that air of authority. He'd kept tabs on every little thing that happened in Erebor; he reviewed the books, tended to disputes, stood up to do things that he didn't think others could do.

But in that time, he had grown closer with Bilbo, and slowly he began to let go of that control. And it felt _good_ ; letting go like that. It felt liberating, to the point where, when Bilbo asked him to stay with him in the Shire, he had done so without hesitation. And still, that control lingered at the center of Thorin's consciousness. He worried about things in Erebor, about his family and friends there. He worried that they would again lose the business if he was not there to keep it from happening.

He really had meant only to visit his family there for Hanukkah; but then the storm had threatened, and so Thorin had taken this chance… had used this _excuse_ to stay at the Lonely Mountain for a while longer. And for _what_? To find that they were doing just fine without him? Somehow, that hadn't upset him. He knew that Balin and the others were taking such great care of the place because of the discipline that Thorin, himself, had always shown. He long ago set up things the way they should be, and they never deviated from that. His authority was still felt in Erebor, even when he was not there.

So he planned to go back home to Hobbiton happily, deciding at last to ask for Bilbo's hand in marriage on the coming Christmas morning. After all, who else could keep his life and emotions at an even keel? Who else could just look at him, and without a single word say everything that needed to be said? Who else could see that need for control, then so easily suggest that it was okay for him to hold on to it... but that if he _did_ let it go, the world would not come to an end?

Thorin scratched his beard. "Everything will be just fine," he said, smiling faintly. "But Bilbo is going to be upset at me when I get home late. I _did_ promise him, after all."

"Well, think of it this way," said Kíli cheerfully. "You're bringing home the best Christmas presents _ever_!" He motioned back and forth between himself and Fíli. "Right?"

"In that case, can I tie a ribbon across your mouth?" joked Fíli. "And a tag: _'Don't open until next Christmas'_?"

Kíli playfully chucked his brother on the shoulder; then the two of them began to laugh, as if they'd just told the best series of jokes that they had ever heard.

"You'll be lucky if you don't both get coal in your stockings," said Thorin, at last finding some humor of his own.

"Do... do they _really_ do that?" asked Kíli.

Thorin chuckled and stood, grabbing his empty mug off the bed stand and stepping over to the coffee maker on the small table near the door; but as he drew the carafe off of the heating plate, the room grew suddenly quiet. He glanced around, and he realized with a sinking ache in his chest that the heater near the window had stopped running. It had been going constantly since they'd gotten there, so the humming and slight rattling had become ambient noises; but now the room was quiet, save for the howling of the wind outside.

Fíli seemed to see where his uncle's attention was, and so he bent over to check the heater. He unplugged it and plugged it back in, then pushed a few buttons. Still it did not turn on.

"It's dead," he said, raising his shoulder in a shrug.

Thorin narrowed his eyes and looked to the carafe in his hand, then he placed it back on the coffee maker and hit the power button, but the light on the side did not respond. He turned then to the wall and flipped the switch by the door, which should have lit the overhead lamps; but the bright white from outside was all that illuminated the room.

"It's not just the heater," he said, trying to maintain his calm. "The power is out."


	3. The Worst Possible Way

Bilbo shook his head in confusion. "Bofur, what are you talking about?" he asked. "And what do you mean _'the lads'_?"

 _"Well, it was supposed to be a surprise,"_ replied Bofur. _"But Fíli and Kíli... they wanted to go back to Hobbiton with Thorin so they could spend Christmas with you."_

"But the airports are closed, how could—" The words froze on Bilbo's lips as he fully realized what he had just been told. "Bofur, he wasn't... _they_ weren't planning on _driving_ through the storm... _were_ they?" There came no immediate reply, and Bilbo could hear a slight clicking; possibly, he thought, interference on the line. "Bofur, are you still—"

 _"—in Fíli's truck the day before yesterday,"_ Bofur's voice suddenly cut in. _"Are they really not there yet?"_

The air felt stolen right out of Bilbo's lungs, and for a few seconds he could neither think straight nor speak; then he got down off his stool and began to pace anxiously. " _Why_?" he snapped; then he glanced at Rosa, who was gripping her beer glass tightly. "Why would they _drive_ through the storm instead of waiting it out?"

 _"They weren't going towards the storm,"_ replied Bofur. _"They were going to go south, over the Redhorn Pass."_

Bilbo stopped pacing as his knees weakened. "That is the _worst_ possible way they could have gone!" he said, grabbing the edge of the bar for support. "You do realize that the storm is _headed_ that way, right?"

The phone again grew quiet, and when the signal returned it was choppy, as if the connection were growing more tenuous. _"The last we_ _—High Pass was pretty bad, but—weathermen said the Redhorn—mostly in the clear."_

"It _was_ clear," said Bilbo, pounding his fist down on the bar. "The storm changed course. It turned to the _south_." He felt a soft touch brush against his tensed knuckles and he looked over to see his aunt giving him a gentle, reassuring smile. "Is... is Balin there?" he asked into the phone, relaxing his fingers and shifting his hand over to take hold of Rosa's. "Can I speak with him?"

_"I'll try—see if—"_

Bilbo listened, waiting for Bofur to continue; but on the other end of the line was now dead silence.

"Bofur?" he said. "Hello?"

Still there came no response, so Bilbo ended the call and set his phone down on the bar. An ache began to grow at his temple and he rubbed at it with his free hand, caring not for the chip-grease he was working through his hair; then he turned his eyes to Rosa, whose jaw was set tight.

"I'm… I'm sure he's fine," she said, raising a shoulder in a slight shrug. "That _they're_ fine. _Whoever_ went with him."

"His nephews," said Bilbo, realizing that she had only heard his half of the conversation. "Fíli and Kíli. They were... they were going to cross the Misty Mountains... they were taking the Redhorn Pass."

Rosa's mouth fell open, but she quickly shut it and nodded. She had never met the boys, but Thorin had spoken about them often. "Well, from what I know of them they're a pretty tough group," she said. "I mean... I'm sure they..." Her voice trailed off and she cleared her throat, apparently lost for words.

He slid his hand out of her hold and picked up his phone, then he started pacing about again. He dialed Thorin's number; and when there came no answer—or even a ring—he tried Fíli and Kíli's phones, as well. Still nothing. He texted them, one after the other; but each of the messages got stuck on _sending_ for a bit, then went to _not delivered_. Tossing the phone onto the wooden bar once more, he sat down hard on his stool and rested his elbows on the brass trim as he gripped the hair on either side of his throbbing head.

"Maybe they beat the storm over the Pass," suggested Rosa. "Hell, we don't even know if maybe they decided to go some other way, or to ride it out in the valley."

"Then why can't I get a hold of them? If they were somewhere safe, why—"

"The storm has knocked out communications all over the place. I mean, Bofur hasn't had much phone service, and _he's_ okay, right?"

"He said the connection has been off and on," replied Bilbo, pulling his hair harder. "But I just… Rosa, what if they _did_ try to go over the Pass? What if the storm hit _while_ they were there? You saw the reports..." He untangled his cramping fingers from his hair and motioned towards the blinding white mess of snow on the television screen. "Fatalities in the Mountains. _Three_ …" The words caught in his throat and his vision began to fog. " _Three_ fatalities in the Mountains."

Rosa sighed, then she sat back and slapped both hands down on the bar. "All right, that's it," she said, standing. "Let's go."

"What?" asked Bilbo, watching her switch off the television and grab her keys out from under the bar. "Where are we going?"

"Home," she said as she made her way to the door. She grabbed Bilbo's coat off the rack and threw it to him, then slipped on her own parka. " _Your_ home. We're getting you out of here."

Bilbo wiped his wet eyes with the back of his hand. "But... what about the bar?"

Rosa glanced around at the empty room. "You're joking, right?" she asked, zipping up her coat. "There hasn't been anyone besides you here all day. Now let's go, before anyone _does_ show up."

She flipped the switch on the wall, so that the only light in the place was the harsh white glare shining in through the front window. Bilbo hurriedly put on his coat, then grabbed his phone and chased after her into the shallow snow and frigid air. She lifted her hood over her head before locking the door behind them; then she shoved her keys into her pocket as they started down the icy sidewalk.

"Wait!" said Bilbo, stopping and turning half around. "The fish and chips!"

"Forget them," she said. "They'll be cold by the time you get home, anyway."

Rosa took hold of his arm and pulled him along, and they went on for a while without speaking. Bilbo for a time kept his eyes on his feet, but when staring at them made him grow dizzy, he at last lifted his face to look around. The buildings on either side of the street were adorned with the usual gaudy red and green and gold Christmas decorations and lights that the locals always set up in December; while between them in places there still remained more tasteful blue and white and silver Hanukkah adornments—though because the holiday itself was over, there was not a single menorah to be found in any of the windows.

Bilbo smiled faintly, wondering how Fíli and Kíli and Thorin's holiday had been; then he shivered with the thought that they may never get to tell him.

"You know, you don't have to do this," he said to Rosa in an effort to shift his thoughts. "You have enough to worry about without looking after me."

" _Looking after you_?" laughed Rosa. "You don't need _looking after_ , Bilbo. I'm just being a good barkeep. You know we always try our best to help out our customers with… well, _problems_."

"You also usually stay in the bar to do that," countered Bilbo.

She winked at him. "Well, in that case I'm being a good _aunt_ ," she said. "And it's not like you were drinking enough to pay the light bill, anyway."

Bilbo turned his attention then to the cleared sidewalks on either side of the freshly-plowed street. The wind, for the time being, had calmed to almost stillness; and yet there were very few people out and about, and all that were had bundled themselves up as if they were ready for the next ice age. Bilbo pulled his own jacket tighter around himself and watched as each of his breaths came out as a great cloud larger than his own head, and he imagined he must seem a bit like a dragon getting ready to spout fire.

"Bilbo!" a shrill voice called out from up ahead, pulling him back into the moment. "Bilbo Baggins!"

" _Lobelia_ ," he said through his teeth. "I'm not in the mood for her right now."

"Be nice," said Rosa in a sing-song tone.

Lobelia stepped up in front of them, but Bilbo simply grabbed Rosa by the hand and walked both of them around her, as if trying to avoid some stationary object that just happened to be in their way.

"That was rude," Rosa whispered as they continued on up the sidewalk.

"She's _always_ rude."

"I meant _you_."

Bilbo frowned; but Rosa put on a forced grin as Lobelia caught up to them again.

"What was _that_ all about?" asked Lobelia, falling into step beside them. "No manners at all!"

"Oh! Sorry, Lobelia!" said Rosa, squeezing Bilbo's hand painfully tight. "There's a… I mean, Bilbo has something… on his mind, and… well, he's a bit distracted."

" _Distracted_!" Lobelia harrumphed. "Well, distracted or not, you'd think he'd at least acknowledge someone when they speak to him. A simple _'hello'_ would have done, but he couldn't even afford me _that_! Honestly, even the Christmas season doesn't bring the gentleman out in him."

"You know, I'm _right here_ ," said Bilbo, seething.

"Well, how does _that_ feel?" Lobelia fired back. " _You_ ignore _me_ and it's all fine, but if _I_ ignore _you_ , suddenly I'm—"

"Is there a point to all this?" demanded Bilbo, pulling himself and Rosa to a halt and facing his cousin. "Because, if you don't mind, I'd like to go home."

Lobelia smirked. "Well, _go_ home, then! Home to Thorin! It's for him that I have… _something_ , anyway. Not for _you_." She drew a long, thick envelope from her pocket and held it out to Bilbo. "Here!"

"What is it?" he asked, grabbing the envelope impatiently.

"It's for _Thorin_ ," repeated Lobelia, pushing a lock of her long black hair up under her faux-fur hood.

"He… I… but…" Bilbo stammered. "He's not _here_."

"Well, I can _see_ that he's not here! Give it to him when you get home."

"No. I mean he's not _here_. He's not in Hobbiton."

Lobelia made a little sound of confusion. "Well, he was _supposed_ to be. He said he _would_ be."

"Said… _when_?" asked Bilbo, squinting at her. " _When_ did he say that?"

"Well, he called me just a few days ago! He told me he would be back here by the twenty-second. That was yesterday, wasn't it?"

Bilbo peered at her past sunken brows. "Wait. Thorin called _you_? From Erebor?" He sniffed. "I didn't even know he had your number." He pointed the envelope at her. "Why would he call _you_?"

"Not for anything _you_ need to know about," she said. "At least, not yet!"

"If it's to do with _Thorin_ , it's to do with _me_."

"Don't give me _that_ , Bilbo Baggins!" said Lobelia. "The two of you aren't married _yet_ , and until you _are_ , I needn't tell you what Thorin and I speak of!" She snickered. "Well, now that I think about it, I don't think I'll do that _afterwards_ , either! You can just ask _him_ if you want to know!"

Bilbo's jaw slacked. " _Not married yet_...?" he echoed her. "How did _you_ know I was going to ask him to..." He stopped when Lobelia's eyes went wide. "I mean…"

Lobelia chuckled. "Oh, this is _good_!" she said, snatching the envelope from Bilbo. "I'll just be taking _this_ , then, so you don't get nosy!" With that, she spun on her heel and strode off down the sidewalk. "Just let me know when Thorin gets home," she called back, "so I can deliver it to him personally!"

Bilbo and Rosa watched her go; then the two of them turned to one another.

"You're going to ask Thorin to..." Rosa began, a crooked smile rising to her lips.

Bilbo groaned and hung his head. "Can we please not talk about this right now, Rosa? I just... I just want to go home."


End file.
